Arms and Armor
by wordsurfer
Summary: When a very important gun is stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art collection, the White Collar team needs help from a mischievous con woman to recover it.


A/N: Um, long story behind this one. Basically, I promised over a year ago that I would write a thousand-word White Collar/Supernatural fanfic for juliet42 as part of the Help the South livejournal thingy. I did work on it, I swear, but I was struck with a severe case of writer's block for a long time, and then I had insane amounts of work. I've finally managed to get my act together and work on it, but it turns out that this particular story is much longer than I'd thought. So here are the first thousand(ish) words, and the rest will be coming soon. Hopefully.

Arms and Armor

"Okay, case assignments for the day." The entire table let out a collective moan, which Peter strategically ignored. "Blake, you've got a tax fraud. Diana, here's a copyright infringement. Jones, you help her."

Jones groaned. "Of course you're saving the good one for yourself," he complained.

Peter traded a grin with Neal, who was lounging in a chair near the back, fiddling with a rubber-band ball. "One of the perks of being senior," he said airily. "You all heard on the news that an antique gun was stolen from the Met yesterday?" Everyone nodded. "Well, they asked the FBI to get it back for them. Specifically the White Collar division. I guess our reputation has spread," he smirked.

"Can't we help with that?" Diana pleaded.

Peter shook his head smugly. "Nope, sorry," he said unapologetically. "It's just Neal and me on this one. Okay. Off you go. Get to work" He made shooing motions.

Grumbling and fussing, the other agents trudged out of the briefing room, leaving Peter and Neal alone. The agent beckoned his CI over.

"Have you heard anything about this? Beyond what was on the news, I mean," Peter asked.

"No. Why?"

"Just curious."

"You think I had something to do with this?" Neal asked, offended. "I hate guns!"

"I know," Peter said reassuringly. "I don't think you stole it. I just had to ask." When Neal still looked upset, Peter handed him a folder, appeasing. "Here's everything we know. Including some stuff that wasn't in the news broadcast."

Neal took it sourly and began to skim through. His eyes widened almost immediately, but he said nothing, continuing to read the report.

"Neal?" Peter asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Neal said absently. He looked up. "I'll see if anyone has heard anything. It could take time."

"Are we going to have a problem on this case?"

Neal shook his head, but could tell that Peter didn't believe him. "Everything's fine. I'm sure Mozzie can come up with something."

"That's not what I'm concerned about, and you know it," challenged Peter. "Is there something special about this gun? Something related to you?"

"Nope," Neal denied and went to grab his coat. Peter looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn't stop him until he reached the door.

"The Met was very insistent that White Collar was involved in this investigation. In fact, they mentioned my name specifically. And yours. Any idea why?"

Neal didn't turn when he answered. "No. But you were probably right before. It's because we've got such a great reputation." With that, he stalked out of Peter's office, back stiff.

* * *

><p>Neal called Mozzie as soon as he was at a safe distance from the FBI building. His friend picked up on the third-and-a-half ring, sounding out of breath.<p>

"This isn't a good time, Neal!"

"This is important, Mozzie. It's…" He broke off, hearing a muffled clanging noise and what sounded like an irate dog growling in the background. "What are you doing?"

"I'll tell you later. Um, can I call you back?"

"No, listen. That gun that was stolen from the Met? It was a Colt." He paused for a moment. "I need you to contact Bela."

Mozzie let out a string of very colorful words that he reserved for special occasions only. "This is bad, Neal," he said once he had finished. "This is really bad."

"I know, Mozzie. Trust me."

"Are you sure you want to get Bela involved, though? You two didn't exactly part on the best of terms last time."

"Not really," Neal sighed. "But what other choice do we have?"

The sounds in the background of the other end of the phone call cut off abruptly. "Look, I'll see what I can do," Mozzie promised. "Now I really have to go."

"Thanks," Neal said. "Talk to you later."

* * *

><p>True to his word, Mozzie called back a few hours later, sounding much better, to let Neal know that Bela had agreed to meet at the Savannah nightclub at ten o'clock. So the con man was leaning casually against the bar, sipping a drink while scanning the dark, pulsing room for any sign of her.<p>

He spotted her soon enough, gracefully making her way through the crowd. "Bela," greeted Neal with a bright-eyed grin.

"Neal," she answered primly. Neither offered to shake hands; they didn't want to be within arm's reach of one another. "I was told you've been asking around about me," she continued.

"I have something you might be interested in."

Watching his face carefully, she said, "And by 'have,' you mean…?"

"Heard rumors about," he admitted.

"Ah," she said smugly. "You want me to steal it for you."

"I want your help in planning a heist, yes."

"And what is it?"

"A Colt. A very specific Colt." She gasped slightly, but she kept her composure. "It was stolen from the Met a few days ago. Are you interested?"

"I might be," she said archly. "Two conditions. One, there are two brothers, the Winchesters, following me around. I want them gone. It shouldn't be too hard; they're already wanted by the FBI. And don't tell me you're not the government's pet on a leash. I could tell you've got a tracking anklet all the way from the other side of the room."

"Fine," agreed Neal, ignoring the sting of her insult. "And the other?"

"If I help you recover this, I get to keep it."

"The FBI swore that it would be returned to the museum."

"Listen to me, Neal. You know what the gun is capable of doing?" He nodded. "Then you know how dangerous it is. Hundreds of people could die if the wrong person gets their hands on it."

He snorted. "I can't believe you just tried that on me. We both know that you'd sell it as soon as you got it."

"Okay," she admitted. "You know how valuable it is. Fencing the Colt alone could pay my rent for the next twenty years. And I would cut you in."

"No," retorted Neal, stubborn. "I can't just let you take it. The agent in charge already doesn't trust me. If I brought you in and then the artifact disappeared…"

"That's a risk you're just going to have to take," she answered, and turned to leave. Neal watched her go, agitated. He had no idea what to do.

* * *

><p>AN 2: The Met, in case anyone doesn't know, is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And it turns out that it actually does have a collection of Colts, which is very useful, because otherwise this was going to have to be a story about how someone stole the mascot, William the Hippo.


End file.
